


The Artful Dodger

by My_Alter_Ego



Series: White Collar Discussions [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Another Clue, Con Job, Gen, Pre-Series Fiction, Slick Getaway, bank heist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 10:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20562725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This is a pre-series story set at the beginning of Peter’s quest to arrest Neal. The FBI agent is gathering intel but lacks evidence of most of his young adversary’s crimes. It’s all just a tantalizing guessing game, but it’s intriguing for Peter, nonetheless. One day, Jones brings him a tasty tidbit about a clever caper that serves to whet Peter’s appetite.





	The Artful Dodger

Clinton Jones was barely a step up from a probie at the New York FBI. However, he was intelligent and driven and knew exactly where he wanted to be. He desperately desired to be part of the Agency’s White Collar Division headed up by newly appointed Peter Burke. Burke was known to be an intimidating task master, but he also had the reputation of being fair and open to new ideas and concepts provided by his rapidly expanding team that was coalescing into a formidable and successful unit. Jones wanted in, and he was bold enough to approach Peter Burke directly. That went well, and now that Jones found himself low man on that totem pole, he had to work harder to prove his value. That was why he meticulously scoured local as well as international news revolving around crimes that fell under White Collar’s purview.

One morning, Jones timidly approached his boss in his office on the second floor of the vast space with an adjoining bullpen of busy agents hunched over their computers. He knocked softly on his boss’s doorframe and took a fortifying breath. When Peter looked up, Jones began his spiel.

“Agent Burke, I wouldn’t want to waste your time, but I’ve become aware of a very intricate con that recently unfolded on the West Coast. I try to keep abreast of all the strangely convoluted scams and capers, no matter where they happen, and I believe the one that I’m referring to has all the earmarks of having been perpetrated by Neal Caffrey.”

Peter’s head shot up and he definitely looked interested. Jones knew that his superior had a score to settle with a con man and bond forger by that name. The vendetta had emerged after the brazen young criminal had actually engaged his clueless aggressor on the street and tauntingly awarded him a shy smile and a green lollypop. Not long after, a white board had materialized in the conference room, and a myriad of telephoto shots of a young, innocent-looking choirboy expanded exponentially as a man now known as Neal Caffrey blithely cavorted across the globe committing fraudulent crimes. Unfortunately, all those acts were just supposition at this juncture. Except for the Atlantic bonds, Neal was like Teflon and nothing else seemed to stick. But that one impetuous error in judgment by the young man was enough for Peter Burke. He was like a dog with a bone and wouldn’t let go.

“Fill me in, Jones,” Peter immediately responded.

“Well, Sir, the actual scam took place in Portland, Oregon just a few days ago. It was really a pretty impressive and audacious crime,” Jones said, almost in admiration. “It took careful planning and execution. If Caffrey was behind it, he managed to get away clean with two million dollars without anybody getting hurt.”

“From what I know of Caffrey, he avoids weapons and uses only his wits to carry out his mayhem,” Peter said thoughtfully. “Go on with your story, Jones.”

“Well, Sir, it started with some untraceable phone messages to the manager of a local bank in Portland. He received death threats to himself and his family. The poor guy was definitely on edge, and he shared his concerns with many of his co-workers as well as the local police. The city detectives briefly investigated but decided this was just the work of some disgruntled former employee and they chalked it up to malicious harassment. They barely looked into it at the time and went on to solve actual crimes that were currently on their plate.

After about a week of fraying the man’s nerves, the phone calls stopped and he received an envelope. The message inside was cobbled together from letters cut from magazines. The gist was that if he didn’t wire two million dollars of the bank’s money into an offshore account, the man’s home would be blown up. So again, the bank manager took the damning letter to the local police who put a protective detail on him, as well as on his home, 24/7. Now, for the next part of the story, let me fill you in on some background,” Jones continued his tale.

“Portland is home to a very prosperous paper manufacturing company that employs a huge workforce mainly comprised of blue-collar workers as well as undocumented and probably illegal immigrants. They’re not exactly the type to use direct deposit for their paychecks, so the paper company arranges a private check-cashing amenity for them, on site, every two weeks when it’s payday. Our nervous bank manager’s establishment was responsible for delivering that cash, but with the present threat, the man was reluctant to make his own employees targets when they motored to the site in an armored vehicle with the bank’s logo prominently displayed. So, he actually gave two bank officers the keys to his own personal car, a nondescript older Honda Accord. They loaded stacks of cash into the trunk and set off on their assignment.”

Jones took a deep, fortifying breath as he continued. “Now, the paper manufacturer is actually located far out in the suburbs,” Jones informed his boss, “and the couriers had to wend their way through vast industrial complexes to reach their destination. Halfway into their journey, two police patrol officers on motorcycles materialized and whooped their sirens until the bank manager’s vehicle pulled over with the pursuing bikes bracketing them, front and back. One of the overtaking troopers was thought to be a woman, but the witnesses are really not sure since the helmet visors covered both of the patrolmen’s faces. Anyway, the perplexed employees were informed that the bank manager’s home had just been destroyed by an immense explosion with an indeterminant loss of life. It was imperative that his vehicle be searched for any incendiary devices as well. Of course, the two men immediately fled the car and watched fearfully as this young officer wriggled himself under the side of the Honda to take a look. He had barely worked his torso beneath the undercarriage when ominous smoke began pouring out of the rear of the car.

The officer’s partner actually shouted, _‘Take cover!’_ as he or she quickly herded the frightened men behind the cinder block wall of a nearby building before returning to aid the endangered cop. The two men held their breaths waiting for an explosion that never took place. Finally, one was brave enough to peer around the corner of his safe haven and saw the intact vehicle sitting innocently in place with the trunk lid up. Of course, the cash contents were long gone. The demoralized bank officers immediately called the bank, and actually talked with the manager, who was very much alive and who informed his counterparts that his home was intact, as well. It had all been a bluff, a sham that had gone off without a hitch. Authentic investigating cops found no traces of the robbers, not a footprint or fingerprint anywhere. There was only the residue of a smoke bomb found on the ground beneath the manager’s car. Apparently, there must have been a third accomplice waiting nearby with a vehicle large enough to offload the heavy stacks of currency and the imposters’ motorcycles. The thieves had gotten away clean with exactly the amount of money they had asked for—two million untraceable US dollars.”

Peter sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his lips at the conclusion of the strange tale. “Thanks, Jones. That was a good catch on your part. It does sound like something out of Caffrey’s bag of tricks.”

“I guess at this point there’s really nothing we can do to pin this down and add it to our whiteboard, is there?” Jones said glumly.

“Nope,” Peter agreed as he grimaced morosely at Jones. “Maybe one day, the crafty bastard will slip up and that’s when we can nail his ass to the wall.”

“Right,” Jones murmured uncertainly, because what else was there to say?

After Jones left, Peter actually smiled like a proud parent. “You are a clever, clever boy, Neal Caffrey. Kudos to your ingenuity. I must admit that you keep the game fresh and entertaining, and chasing you never gets stale. I’m actually going to miss our game when I have to put you away. However, my little Artful Dodger, you executed your second misstep in the intrigue because now I’m not only familiar with your face, I also know another very important fact. You have cohorts, and one may be a female. Perhaps she will prove to be your Achilles Heel, my sly young friend. I guess we’ll have to see how that all shakes out in this chess game of ours. Come back home to Papa, Neal, and play in our sandbox. I’m eagerly awaiting your next move.”


End file.
